


I Dare You

by LitRaptor42



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, captain charming is the silliest!!, nutmeg pancakes? ha, this is real silly, try omelets binch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 15:50:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12460965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LitRaptor42/pseuds/LitRaptor42
Summary: Captain Charming and #47. “Go on, I dare you”~*~This may be sooper dumb but it was the first stupid thing I thought of when I got this prompt. So. THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING, and HAPPY CAPTAIN CHARMING :D





	I Dare You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ofshipsandswans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofshipsandswans/gifts).



Killian stares down at the ancient book, skimming one last time over the evenly inked passages. Emma and her parents had disagreed on its origins; his wife and her mother had insisted that this newer printing was due to the mechanics of those odd boxes Belle called a ‘computer,’ while his prince stubbornly argued that only a ‘typewriter’ (whatever the bloody hell that was) had created the yellowed pages. He himself was of the opinion that only a printing press, such as those found only in Arandelle, could produce such neat, orthodox lines of letters.

“Well?” says David, challenging. He’s backed up against the kitchen table, arms crossed, blonde brows sarcastic and amused.

Biting his lip, Killian suppresses a frustrated reminder that he, unlike the shepherd prince, spent a number of years doing nothing but serving persnickety captains and merchant smugglers, regardless of Liam’s influence—and sometimes, was harshly judged on his ability to produce a beautiful meal. “Aye, mate,” he says at last, shooting a fierce glance at his father-in-law. “I can do it.”

David just raises his brows, lips compressing in a tight, expectant smile. Killian takes a deep, steadying breath, and bends down. Emma keeps all the pots and pans stored under the sink in a cupboard—why, he can’t imagine: why wouldn’t they be hung on the wall, where any good cook could reach them?—to seize a large frying pan.

The book states that he must use both oil and butter; he takes one from the shelf and another from the icebox (no, the _refrigerator_ , that’s what she insists on calling the enormous, boxy thing), and splotches them into the pan.  But the cookbook also agrees that they must heat until well-incorporated and browned. He goes back into the refrigerator and seizes the eggs.

For a moment he struggles with the long, crinkly stiff paper container, and David stifles a snort as he finally rips open the lid, displaying a neat double row of round brown eggs. Metal bowls, at least if Swan was the last one to unload the dish-washing box, are just under the counter. Killian drags the doors open and immediately finds a bowl large enough for his needs. Crack on the counter, dump into bowl, finger out the remaining whites. Killian doesn’t dare look directly over at David, but from the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of impressed approval.

Casting around, he finds the rather impressive instrument Swan refers to simply as a “whisk,” inelegantly shoved into a compartmented little block of tools on the counter, and begins beating the eggs fervently. His father-in-law frowns, but Killian ignores him. Pausing for a moment, he reaches for the pepper grinder. At last! a familiar instrument. Between that and the similar salt grinder, he’s beginning to feel within his element: they’re not exactly ancient inventions, but he recalls Harvey bringing one of each onto the _Porpoise_ at least two centuries before, demonstrating their usefulness to his junior crewmate.

Next, says the cookbook, pour the eggs into the pan when the butter and oil have browned.  Well, that’s fairly obvious. Killian frowns in concentration, and carefully tilts the pan around to spread the butter.

David has moved close to eyeball the pan over his shoulder. “Don’t burn it,” he says teasingly.

“Mate,” Killian replies, testy.  His father-in-law backs away and leans against the sink, hands held up in resignation.

Killian picks up the bowl of beaten eggs and pours them into the pan with a smooth circular swoop, then plunks the down the bowl again to seize the handle of the pan and jiggle the eggs a bit. They’re already hissing a bit, becoming a nice opaque yellow-white at the edges, forming a pleasantly symmetrical oval.

This is the tricky bit; he’s made the recipe, or at least its Enchanted Forest equivalent, plenty of times. But… usually with pilfered eggs in lard, or a bit of leftover bacon grease, in a questionably rusty iron skillet over a cookfire—or in a cramped galley, bracing himself as the ship lurched. Somehow the dazzlingly clean, bloody _sophisticated_ conditions of his own kitchen were making him sweat far more than if he were bent over the galley fire, Silver standing over his shoulder.

His companion has remained obediently silent, though, arms crossed, his head turned to the right to watch with interest. Killian briefly wonders if David himself has ever made this particular recipe; he knows the man can cook, he’s watched the gustatory magic happen back in that airy little loft his now-in-laws used to share. But a former shepherd, pulling off this experiment in perfect timing?

 _At any rate_ , he thinks, grumpy, _he’s never done it one-handed, that’s for sure._

Taking up the spatula, he prods at the eggs, spreading them out a bit, then jiggles the pan again. They’re already reassuringly solid, only a small amount of jelly-like bright yellow remaining in the middle. He exhales: now or never.

He can feel David watching him, breathless, as he sets down the spatula and takes up the pan, unconsciously spreading his feet to shift into a tense stance. Tilt the pan slowly, says the book, until the mass of eggs begins to gently gather against the bottom lip of the pan. This is the only part he’s never actually done. Successfully, anyway.

Killian glances over, his hand frozen on the handle of the pan. His father-in-law is watching closely; after a moment, their eyes lock. The corner of David’s mouth twitches.

“Go on,” he says softly, with a wicked glint in his eye. “I dare you.”

And the teasing taunt is enough to make Killian grit his teeth, scowling, and turn back to the stovetop. He realizes he’s holding his breath, but can’t stop: his muscles feeling like they might snap from the tension, he swirls the pan forward once—twice—

Then he swoops it upward in a huge motion, the eggs soaring from the pan, the edge of the neat circle nearly clipping the smoke hood. Time seems to slow, Killian’s heart dropping into his stomach, and he automatically adjusts the position of the pan, pulling his elbow back so the hot surface is just under the eggs as they plummet downwards, their position now reversed…

And with a sizzling splat, the omelet lands right-side-down in the frying pan, barely off-center. Without thinking, Killian slaps the pan back onto the stove, sucking in a relieved breath.

Silence reigns for a moment, punctuated only by the distant sound of a clunky old motor— _Emma! she’s home!_ —outside the house, and the slight creak of the enormous house settling. A bead of sweat has made its way down the side of his face, and he wipes it away absently with the shirtsleeve of his free arm, glancing up again at David.

With a dim sense of gleeful pleasure, he realizes that a grin is spreading across his father-in-law’s face.  The other man begins to nod, and finally raises a hand to point at the perfect, gently browning omelet. “That was, uh… pretty awesome,” he admits, beaming.

Killian finds that his face is burning, and reciprocates with a wide grin. “Aye, well, make yourself useful and crack some more eggs, mate,” he says casually, continuing to gently swirl the pan. “You’re making the next one.”


End file.
